ONE IMPASSIONED HOUR.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXI, Issue 9043, 19 March 1908, Page 2

ONE IMPASSIONED HOUR.

By OWEN MASTERS.

hor of " Nina's Repentance," " Clyda's Love Dream," " Her Soldier Lover," " For Love of Marjorie," " The Mystery of Woocicroft," etc.

CHAPTER XIII. NEWS OF EASTWOOD.

your hospitality, Berrington, but will keep out of your way. You are off to the Priory now?" "Yes." With a curious smile Upton Warren left the room, and Allan stood at the window for a few minutes, gazing out, but seeing nothing. Then a girl's figure crossed his line of vision, and he strode into the veranda, his face lighting with a glad smile. "Kate —Kate! This is the first time 1 have beheld you to-day," he called. Katherine Lin ley turned, her dark eyes shining shyly. "We have all had to give ourselves up to the gloominess of the hdur, Allan. It seems to brood everywhere." She looked at him questioningly now. / "No tidings, Kate, of any importance. I am going to the Priory to see if Miss Eastwood has heard from her father. Mr Warren has tracked him to the Manhattan Hotel, New York. If you would like a drive " "No, thank you, Allan. I loathe the very atmosphere of the Priory," Kate said decidedly. He looked pained. "I am very sorry that you and Miss Eastwood did not warm to one another," he stammered. "She betrayed no particular symptoms of friendship toward me; in fact, I am sure that she regarded me wilh furtive looks of dislike." "I think you #re mistaken, Kate. Why should she?" "Because she knows a good deal which she will not tell. My perceptions are keen, Allan, and so are Miss Eastwood's." A glow had sprung into her cheeks and eyes. "You don't believe what I say, and you don't approve." "Not exactly." He was regarding her quizzically. "But perhaps my perceptions are very dull. I hold both of you in the highest estem. You and Miss Eastwood are neighbours—the Eastwoods have always been our most intimate friends " I "Have been," interrupted Kate, with emphasis. "Hush! Here comes that meddler Forrest. I must be civil to him, though." "I wish that you would give him to understand that he is most unwelcome at the Red House—l mean when you are not here." Her face was aflame, for he was staring at her with wide eyes. "Why this strange dislike?" "Well, he will insist upon making love to me, and I absolutely hate him." A half-sob passed her lips, and she fled back to the house. "Phew!" Allan whistled. He advanced to meet the curate, ignoring the proffered hand. "I am sorry to have to request you not to call at the Red House for awhile, Mr Forrest." "Why, dir"? the curate demanded, with a resentful flush. "Well, we are not in need of any I spiritual treatment just now," said Allan dryly. "Good morning." "You are insulting, Mr Berrington. I came to suggest something which your very clever detectives have overlooked. Why was the rent in the floor of the chapel cell repaired so mysteriously and so swiftly?" But Allan was walking away, with the words eating into his brain. (To be continued.)

Castle Stanford was in the throes of something nv>re than a nine days' wonder. Public feeling was wrought to the highest pitch of excitement, consternation, and horror. Its principal magnate had disappeared utterly, and after an exhaustive inquiry the consensus of expert opinion pointed to foul play. But who could have bsen guilty of injuring a maa so beloved as Mr John Berrington? Some said poachers--he had stumbled upon them, and they had mistaken him for an enemy. Others shook their heads. And what had become of the body? Oh, that was easily explained. The surrounding country was one of the wildest in Britain. There were dense woods, and the hills were full of caverns; there were canals and wells, and open pit-shafts. Men had vanished before, and their whitened bones had been discovered months and even years later. Then another bolt from the blue descended mercilessly upon Castle Stanford. Mr Charles Eastwood, of the Priory, second only to Mr Berrington in importance,b2came involved n a veritable whirlpool of scandal and suspicion. It was rumoured that he had secretly married a woman twenty years younger than himself, a music-hall singer, or something equally disreputable. And the very day after Mr Berrington's disappearance he had left home, and was on his way to New York. He had not taken his wife with him, neither had he assigned any reason for the voyage, and there were some who hinted that he was flying from justice. That he had quarrelled with Mr Berrington was certain, and it was at the Priory that the maze of mystery began. And so ten days passed, and , the police came to a halt. A London detective occupied comfortable quarters at the Red House, whence he issued absurd orders. Once daily he walked to Castle Stanford and despatched a telegram to> Scotland Yard, and once daily he received one frjm headquarters—both in cypher. This appeared to be all that he did | do, except smoke innumerable cigarettes, and 101 lin a .hammock under the tree 3. Allan Berrington had absolute confidence in this man. Years before they had struck up an acquaintance in a court of law, and upon several occasions Upton Warren had been of use to the young lawyer. He was a tall slender man; we'.l groomed, well educated, and might have beeii mistaken for an actor, a parson, or a lawyer.' They all look so much alike nowadays. On the tenth day of the mystery he sauntered into a library. Allan was busy with a bundle of correspondence from the iron-works. "Tidings of Eastwood," Warren said. "He actually turned up at the Manhatteh yesterday. Our agent shadowed him from the steamer to the hotel; then lost him. He, should have been arrested right there, Berrington, only you wouldn't give your consent."

Allan reated his burning head on his hand, and glanced at the detective wearily. "A terrible thing to do, Warren, upon ths merest suspicion." Warren shrugged his shoulders. "The only safe thing to do— You are thinking of his daughter?" "Yes, I am." He pushed the papers aside. "Sho may have news of hirr., alsc. She cabled to the Manhattan Hotel last Saturday. I'll ride over to the Priory." The detective smiled, unpleasantly. "I'm at a standstill," he confessed. "My reputation is going to suffer; I am annoyed with you, Berrington. I cau't afford to have 'failure' written after the name of Upton Warren, for the mere sake of humouring your sentimental consideration." He looked Allan squarely in the eyes. "Now, will you tell me, as man toman, if you have disclosed every scrap of evidence in your possession?" "You have been talking to the curate," Allan instantly answered. "Wrong. The curate has been talking to me. I want to see that blackthorn stick with the broad silver band close up to the handle. I

believe that Charles Eastwood owned such a stick, and that he walked out with it on the night of the murder." "I am not yet satisfied that any murder has been done," Allan said huskily. "And until lam I shall not give up the stick." "But the blood-stains?" "Mr Forrest's exuberant, but mischievous, imagination." "Then I must resign—defeated. I have never suffered so damaging a check in all my twelve years' experience." "You have not traced my .father yet. You forget the conditions. Look here, Warrer., you shall lose nothing by this." "I'll take a vaca ioi, and spend it here, if you don't mind. I know how to behave'myself, I hope. To my mind, w<; haven't yet unravelled a single skein of the tangle, and, any'way, this will be my last case. You know why." Allan nodded. "Make yourself at home, Warren. You have the run of the place. You might help me sometimes with the business of the iron-works. I can see my dreams of the woolsack growing beautifully less!" "Lucky for you. The atmosphere of the law is tainted with vice and depravity. Here, the garden and the woods are your courts, vocal with the song of birds, instead of stuffy brick rooms, teeming with humanity—inquisitive, malicious, perjured, suffering, and revengeful." He turned to the door. "I've struck work, and am going to take a vacation. I accept